That Unforgettable Day
by hawthorneash13
Summary: It was that day. That day. The day America would never forget. The day the placid glass wavered and shattered down in a shining rain, the rolling inferno of the background reflecting off their many twisting facets. The ground imprinted with the silhouettes of mortals as they rushed closer and closer until they were one with their shadow.


It was that day. That day. The day America would never forget.

When it had happened, he had been at a world conference in Britain. When he felt lives, lives, lives he knew, being torn from him in a gut retching agony. He had been laughing jovially, bugging England as Germany presented. England had swatted him away, cursing at him to stop being so obnoxious. He was about to retort when he froze, every muscle in his body locking up. England spared him a weird glance, and France, who had been watching, gave a quizzical eyebrow raise. And then he screamed. He screamed like his eyes were being ripped out of his skull, and he crumpled to the floor, his skin smocking as burn marks rose on his flesh. He took a breath, and fought for the next. He struggled up, his eyes blind to those who tried to help him. He slumped against the wall, tracks of blood slipping off his skin only to evaporate as the inferno raged on in his body. The first plane had hit. The first plane had hit one of his nerve centers and killed hundreds of his citizens. But as he sorted through the names, clawing at his hair, ripping at his clothes to try to avoid the heat, it became clear. The seizures that racked his body paused for a moment as he stared against the table, eyes searching through the red haze to find who was responsible. There, sitting next to Afghanistan.

"WHY?!" he screamed at Iran, falling to his knees as the next plane hit. His left arm exploded in a spray of gore, bones crunching and scattering as the buildings collapsed. He faintly heard England calling for him, but all he felt was the immense sorrow that dug its way through the physical pain. People jumping. People choosing their deaths. His people should never have to make that decision. When he finally thought he couldn't take anymore, when his ragged screams had receded to pained gasps, he yelled again as the Pentagon was hit, and again as innocents, brave innocents who would never live into what they could've been chose to stop the terrorist actions and crashed into a field instead. Names poured past his mind, and numbly, he realized he was being picked up on put on a stretcher. No. no, he can't go yet. He has to protect his country. And though his vision was black, he forced his eyes to open and light pour back in. He fought the restraints and the people holding him down. He stumbled until he hit the table, and he took a deep breath, his arm useless at his side. He felt primal and rapid as he looked at Iran out of the corner of his eye, anger, so much _anger_ projected at the country. And in those moments, Iran couldn't help but think of Japans words after he bombed Pearl Harbor- and in those eyes was certainly a giant. But he wasn't sleeping any longer. Like a zombie, like a dead thing moving by sheer will. America grabbed the shaking Iran by the wrists and slopped some of his blood on his hands.

"Is this what you wanted?" He growled, backing up. The ferocity was gone as he choked back the pain, allowing the countries to force him into the gurney. Iran stared dumbly at the blood in his hands, deaf to the rage filled questions. He didn't know Al Qaeda would go this far. He didn't… he may hate America, but in those moments, looking at that rage and then that sorrow… he didn't.

Like it did every year, on September 11th, his body echoed with lost pains. He was curled up on his couch, staring at the picture of the World Trade Center, and around it, the faces of everybody who died; workers, bystanders, firefighters, police men, loved ones who have taken their lives when they found that they were, in fact, not strong enough to go on. Words dedicated to the event. He only had this all up on this day. Tonight, he would put it all away, and nobody would know. As it was, no one did. He clutched the mug of coffee tightly in his hands. It was true; everyone had become New Yorkers that day. The day America would never forget.

**Tribute fic to 9/11. I was only two when this happened, so I don't remember it. I know it's not even the eleventh, but there it no need to for me to wait until next year to post this. I will remeber the lives lost from today to tomorrow and on. This is truly the day nobody will forget, and for those who have lost someone because of this horrible terrorist attack- know that your pain is at least acknowledge by all, if not understood on some level, because it would be an injustice to say that everybody understands someones else's pain on the level they do. **

P.S: this one-shot is also my desire to express my headcannons about that day, and how it would affect America.


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